


Ascension

by KivaEmber



Category: Original Work
Genre: Multi, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Universe, Post-Apocalypse, Urban Fantasy collides with Sci-Fi, and then there's actual magic, but the world keeps on trucking regardless, demons and angels and gods oh my!, science so advanced it looks like magic, the protagonist doubles as the villian sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 02:30:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12644322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KivaEmber/pseuds/KivaEmber
Summary: Welcome to Sodom, the last liveable megacity on the hellscape that was once Earth. Constantly going through Ascensions and Falls, where Gods rise and then, inevitably, fall, there is no such thing as moral stability there. With districts ruled by soul-grubbing demons, and fallen beginning to outnumber the few angels left, the city is slowly yet surely turning itself into its own personal hell.What begins as an unusual but straightforward mission to reclaim an artefact from a demon ends up spiralling into the mystery of how Sodom came to be - and why it is trapped in a never ending cycle of Ascensions and Falls.





	Ascension

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ascension](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3725128) by [KivaEmber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KivaEmber/pseuds/KivaEmber). 



> This is a rewrite of Ascension, which I wrote a little over a year ago. The plot has been completely overhauled and I'm aiming for an Urban Fantasy/Sci-Fi mash up.

The clacks of bamboo striking bamboo echoed around the crumbling courtyard. In the centre, with the blazing Sodom sun glaring down at the cracked flagstones, two small figures whirled around in graceful, sweeping movements, swinging the bamboo sticks in a flurry of motions, striking rapidly and harshly against one another. Their blinding white robes made them seem ethereal, sunlight glinting off of their metal rings clamped around their thin ankles and wrists, bare feet stirring up clouds of dirt that muddied the very hems of those robes.

Azamat watched these figures from the shadow of a stone arch, the door long since rotted away into nothing. His blue eyes tracked the dancing figures’ movements, the spin of the bamboo and the sweep of the white robes, his handsome face set in an expression of intense curiosity. Those figures were disciples of God Irre – the very first god to preside over Sodom – and, if Azamat recalled correctly, those disciples, human children no more than ten, were practicing one of the basic tenants of Irre’s religion:

_“Thou shall take the blade and turn it upon those with unclean blood. Wash the streets with filthy red, until the cries of the heathens fill the sky!”_

Of course, not much heathen killing happened in the name of Irre anymore, but the tradition of being skilled with the sword remained in his loyal followers. Irre… the first god, but certainly the maddest. The amount of people killed during that god’s lengthy reign was mind-boggling. Sodom had been reduced to a land of pillaging and bloodshed – exciting place to be at the time. But, that had been twenty thousand years ago. Humans were a lot more… sophisticated now.

Supposedly.

“Mister Azamat?”

The voice, young and male, pulled Azamat out of his thoughts and he turned away from the swirling figures to behind him, where a man in his early twenties stood. Just like the children in the courtyard, he was dressed in blinding white robes, metal bands clamped to his ankles and wrists – a blood red sash was tied around his waist, and to that, the glint of a long, curved blade hung from it. Blessed metal – it would injure even a demon severely. On Azamat, it was utterly useless.

He smiled.

“That’s me. Are you the one who requested the job?”

The young man shook his head, beads of sweat collecting on his brow. The stink of anxious fear hung around him like a toxic cloud, and Azamat’s lips curled in malicious amusement, lifting his hand to idly toy with the soft fabric of his crimson scarf. The human watched his movements with a sharp gaze, his hands relaxed by his side and his body loose, even with the stink of nervous sweat about him. Impressive. To another human, he would’ve appeared utterly calm.

“The one who requested it is the master of this temple,” the human said, tilting his chin proudly. Azamat tutted softly, “I ask if you could please follow me, Mister Azamat.”

“Certainly. But allow me to clean myself up first,” he purred, taking great, slow care to straighten out his appearance, as if preparing to meet with a VIP. He was, temple masters were greatly respected in the human community, but Azamat held nothing but disdain for them, and he showed it in his slow, methodical movements, his expression mocking as he grinned at the young disciple. A tweak of his tie, adjustment of his black vest, a fidget of his white sleeves’ cuffs… he took his time.

The disciple was trembling in frustration, but he held for an impressive three minutes. “…are you finished?” he finally snapped.

“Yes,” Azamat brushed his hands down his vest, and tilted his head, “Lead the way.”

They walked inside the temple – where the outside was hot, the inside was cool, the cramped stone corridors lit by candles. It seemed electricity hadn’t been introduced to Irre’s temples – though they had taken a more peaceful interpretation of Irre’s bloody-minded religion, they still stuck to the strict laws of anti-technology. No modern medicine, no electricity, no amazing science – it was a shame really, as humans’ main talent, in Azamat’s opinion, was their ability to tear past their mundane limitations by forcing reality to bend to their convenience.

It was so  _musty_  too. Azamat could practically  _feel_  the dust clinging to his perfect,  _expensive_  clothes… they would have to be dry cleaned the minute he left this crumbling ruin.

Azamat was drawn out of his internal pouting when the disciple drew to a sudden stop before a corridor so narrow it was practically a crack in the wall. His nose twitched at the smell of  _divinity_  wafting from this crack, and when the disciple squirmed in, Azamat… hesitated. There was a faint stirring in his stomach, something that begged caution, and, for the briefest moment, he was tempted to ditch the job and leave the temple as swiftly as his feet would allow him.

But this job promised money, only a million shards but, money was money, and…

In the end, greed overcame common sense and Azamat stepped into the crack, the walls seemingly bending away from him so he didn’t have to squirm. Deeper and deeper into the depths they went, until they came into a tiny room – dark and stinking of stagnant blood, the crooked form of a wizened old man stooped over an empty altar – and a body, white robes torn and limbs eagle-spread, the insides strewn over the stone altar’s sides.

Azamat didn’t even blink.

“Temple master, I presume?” he said, his voice loud in the small room. “Lovely sacrifice there – digging the entrails.”

The disciple made a hissing noise, but the old man raised a gnarled hand, silencing the young man. Azamat shot him a smug little grin, just because he could, revelling at the spike of anger buzzing around the human like a swarm of hornets. Beautiful. Humans were so easily antagonised.

“Azamat, I’m glad you have come. I require your services.”

“I know,” Azamat’s pale eyes slid back to the old man, evaluating the stooped figure. He smelled old, he looked old, he  _felt_  old. The old man’s face was sunken, cheeks hollow from a mouth long empty of teeth, and his milky white eyes stared at nothing, straggles of grey strands hanging from his chin in an attempt at a beard. Gnarled hands clung to the knotted top of a walking stick, and at his side hung a small dagger, tied to a red sash. He looked like he would crumble into dust if Azamat even so much as poked him, and, admittedly, the thought was tempting.

The old man wheezed, “This disciple on the altar, he was murdered last night whilst performing a sacred duty.” His voice sounded like sandpaper, and he breathed heavily, as if that single sentence robbed him of any stale air left in his lungs, “The duty of protecting the last of Irre’s earthly remains in Sodom.”

Now  _that_  – Azamat immediately stiffened, his shoulders drawing taut as if in preparation to take flight, “ _What_? Irre’s corpse is in the graveyard. All of it.”

“His corpse is there, yes,” the old man conceded, “Yet a part of Irre remained here. It was his blood, bestowed upon our last prophet before the god’s demise. We have guarded it for thousands of years in utter secrecy, and yet… last night, somehow, someone discovered its existence and  _stole_ it.”

There was silence in that room as Azamat digested this information. Irre’s blood, huh… the very first god’s essence in someone else’s hands? That essence would sell for  _billions_ , no,  **trillions**  on the black market, and if Azamat had heard of this miraculous thing prior to this, he… probably would’ve stolen it in the middle of the night as well. To have a piece of God in your hands – in demons, it would give them horrific powers beyond mortal comprehension, and in Fallens, they could blossom into Godlings, and humans… who knew what a human could do with it? Rend time and space apart, most likely.

Anyone would steal it – everyone in fucking Sodom would steal it.

“So, this job you’re offering…”

“We wish for it back,” the old man coughed, “Before it’s too late. Nothing but disaster will befall Sodom if that blood falls into the wrong hands. We are not a rich temple, but, please, Azamat, I beseech you. We will pay whatever price you name to the best of our ability.”

Azamat doubted it would top whatever price he could get for Irre’s blood, but he wisely didn’t voice this; “Why me? You must know that I am not exactly the most… honest of mercenaries.”

“Because you can function outside the laws of Sodom,” the old man said, “A normal Fallen cannot harm a human, but  _you_  can.”

True. Azamat had quite the kill count under his belt – enough for him to be banned from entering certain neighbourhoods in specific districts. He rubbed his bottom lip, his gaze settling on the gutted corpse on the altar and watching as flies buzzed around its open stomach.

“So, you suspect a human did this?”

“Only a human could do this,” the old man replied, “A demon cannot step on holy sites, and Fallen cannot kill humans.”

“But those like me can,” Azamat reminded him, “My siblings are in the area.”

“This is true,” the old man coughed, and banged his walking stick against the stone floor. It echoed hollowly, “But Aetis and Alyssia would not have bothered stealing it in the night.”

Ah, that is true. Azamat’s siblings would have simply strolled up to the temple and taken it in broad daylight. They were like cavemen, he swore, just stomping about doing whatever they wished and giving Azamat a bad reputation by association.

“So a human stole it,” he concluded, his mind mulling over this unique situation. A piece of God was in the hands of an unknown human, or – it was possibly stolen by a human on orders of a demon, or a particularly ambitious Fallen. Humans were considered good, expendable minions, very versatile, very numerous and  _easy_  to please. Already, a short list was forming within Azamat’s mind on who the possible supernatural perpetrator could be. “And you want me to find this human and bestow some biblical punishment on his ass?”

“A life for a life,” the old man said solemnly, “That is our faith. Return the injury that he inflicted upon our brother, and return our God to us before Sodom falls into ruin.”

“Sure,” Azamat smiled, extending his palm towards the old man. Behind him, he sensed the young disciple shift in alarm, but he didn’t touch the Temple Master. No, he merely held out his hand expectantly, “But first, you should know that you need a deposit before I start my jobs. Three million shards.”

“T-Three million-?!” the disciple squeaked indignantly.

“A bit too low, I know,” Azamat hummed, “But I give 50% discounts to religious men. You should be honoured.”

The Temple Master gazed at him for a long moment, before rasping; “Five million, with a stipulation.”

Azamat, who had begun beaming at the higher price, paused warily, “What kind of stipulation?”

“I know what you’re like, Azamat,” the old man said, having the gall to look grimly amused, “You said it yourself. You’re a dishonest mercenary. I’m not ignorant as to the… market price of our host holy of relics.”

Damn.

“You think he would steal it for himself?” the disciple questioned.

“I don’t think. I know.”

“Okay then,” Azamat cut in irritably, “So why bother with me, then, if you can’t trust me to complete the job?”

“Yes, why trust him?” the disciple demanded, “I mean no disrespect, master, but if this-” he cut a scathing look Azamat’s way, “- _Fallen_  would sooner claim the relic for himself, then shouldn’t we employ someone more trustworthy?”

“A mere human wouldn’t succeed in this task,” the Temple Master rasped, “But, you do raise a point. Azamat, we cannot trust you. I would be a fool to. So, the stipulation is this: you will earn triple your pay, as well as a five million deposit, if you take along one of my own to observe your actions.”

“You want me to accept a tag-along?” Azamat frowned, “I’ll probably be going to dangerous areas, y’know. I can’t really, uh, promise they’d survive or anything…”

“Don’t worry. Geis can take care of himself.”

“You’re sending  _Geis_?” the disciple gasped, “But Master, he’s a… one of _those_ …”

“He’ll be able to keep up with you, Azamat,” the Temple Master continued, ignoring his disciple’s uncertain mumblings, “He fully embodies Irre’s teachings, and will ensure that you complete your job… correctly.”

Azamat paused to think. Even with the added funds this old man has thrown in to sweeten the deal, he would still earn hell of a lot more by selling Irre’s remains on the black market. His plan was still the same, really, get the relic and sell it on. He’d lose out on a big chunk of money, but he should get his return with the relic…

But, this tag along… some humans could be terribly tenacious when it came to “duty”. Demons were fine to deal with. Be annoying enough and they just gave up, whereas humans were like a dog with a bone. The moment they wanted to sink their teeth into something, there was just no shaking them off unless you dumped their body in a ditch somewhere. Well… hm, Azamat will burn that bridge when he got there, he supposed. It wouldn’t be hard to deal with Geis, he was sure.

“Fine, deal,” Azamat grumbled, making sure to seem a  _little disheartened_ , “but if the idiot gets himself killed trying to whack a demon or whatever, it’s not my fault.”

The Temple Master bobbed his head in a painful looking nod. Azamat could practically hear every joint in his body creak from the movement.

“A deal, then. Lloyd, please take Azamat back to the entrance. The promised shards, and Geis, shall be waiting for you there.”

“Yes, Master.”

As they squirmed their way out of the room, leaving the crumbling old man behind, Azamat could help but needle a little; “You have a guy named Geis, but your name is Lloyd? That’s weirdly normal.”

“Shut up,” the disciple grumbled.

It didn’t take long for them to retrace their steps back to the entrance. The sparring children were gone from the dusty courtyard, but underneath the shadow of the stone arch, Azamat could see a figure standing, staring off into the street past the rotted door.

“Hoy, Geis,” the disciple called as they drew near.

Geis turned to them and Azamat gave him a quick once over. He was dressed in the typical garb of an Irre cultist, except that the sash around his waist was gold instead of red – If Azamat remembered correctly, that meant he was lower ranked than Lloyd. Geis was also quite lean and well-toned, something Azamat could appreciate, with a surprisingly delicate looking face; high cheekbones, almond shaped, blue eyes, thin eyebrows… hm, he’d tap that.

“Lloyd,” Geis murmured, surprisingly soft-spoken, “I assume this is Mister Azamat.”

“Yes, but don’t bother with the Mister,” Azamat said cheerfully, “If we’re to be working together, I’d prefer us to be informal.”

Lloyd gave him a suspicious look; “But not too informal,” he said stiffly, “Remember, Geis, you are to watch him. He cannot be trusted.”

Geis nodded, “Understood.”

“Geeze,” Azamat huffed, “Way to ruin a good first impression, asshole.”

“I have your deposit here, Azamat,” Geis said, either oblivious to, or ignoring the way Lloyd bristled, “Do you wish for me to hold onto to it?”

“No. Gimme.”

Geis obligingly handed over a baseball sized orb to Azamat’s greedy hands. It was warm to the touch, and its surface was shifting, oily silver. Azamat held it up to the light, inspecting it closely. Humans could never correctly count the amount of soul shards when placing them within these orbs, so he was pleased to see that he could sense five million within there. How a religious cult, albeit one built on violence, gathered so many, he wouldn’t know. Not that it was any of his business, really.

“Mm, yup, everything seems to be in order,” Azamat said. He brushed his fingers over the surface, and with a small flash of light the orb vanished. Pocket space was so convenient. He had no idea how humans survived without it. “I’m satisfied.”

Geis nodded, “Then, what is our first destination?”

“Beatrice’s place. She’s got a strangle-hold on the black market in this district, so anything being sent through there, she’d know.”

“The local District Lord?” Lloyd looked a bit apprehensive, “Dallying with her is a little… dangerous.”

“Oh, darling, you have no idea,” Azamat couldn’t hold back a grimace; “I hate dealing with her, but, needs must.”

Geis looked utterly unmoved. Really, it was quite strange. Lloyd, while possessing an impressive poker-face, was easily sensed to be frightened or nervous. But this Geis, it was like a blank slate. Nothing. Azamat could admit that it unnerved him a little. Unreadable people were unpredictable people, and unpredictable people were  _dangerous_  people, even if they did have a criminally beautiful face.

“We should make haste,” Geis said.

“Yes, we should. If we take too long, she might eat it or something,” Azamat scoffed, “C’mon, half-pint. Let’s roll.”

And with that Azamat abandoned Lloyd, grabbed Geis by the scruff of his neck, and whisked him away with a cheeky Dimensional Hop. What? He wasn’t going to  _walk_  all the way to Beatrice’s HQ like some plebeian  _human_. Cheating space and time was far more fun anyway.

If only he could say the same about their visit to Beatrice’s…

 


End file.
